Spring’s in the Error

Margaret didn’t notice when Jane first arrived to the print shop. Her sole focus was printing the flyer for her annual Shakespeare in the Park festival. They always did the favorite, ‘Midsummer’s Night Dream’.

But Jane’s increasingly strident voice demanded attention.

“You printed it all wrong,” she said to Greg, the manager.

“Actually, I didn’t. I followed your instructions exactly. Look at the paperwork.”

Jane slapped the table. “Who orders a flyer announcing, ‘Shakespeare in the Pork’?”

“You did. Look.”

He pointed to her signature at the bottom. The banner headline read, ‘Shakespeare in the Pork!’

“But that makes no sense!”

“That’s nothing. You should see the orders I get.”

“You think I’m promoting a barbecue renaissance?”

“I couldn’t care less why you want something printed. I take orders and get them done. That’s it.”

“You want me to sue? I will, you know.”

Jane threw her hands up in frustration. “I need it fixed. Now. Do you know who I am? I’m Jane Drainin, director of Shakespeare’s ‘Midsummer’ for the Spring-fest. This weekend! How soon can you fix it?”

“It’s in the queue. I’ll get to it ASAP. Orders have been backing up because…” He cut to the chase. “I’m very busy right now.”

Margaret resisted entering into this dispute. But the fact she had a competing Shakespeare festival compelled her to listen. She finished her printing and left to post her flyers.

She didn’t know if her city could support simultaneous productions of the same play. But she drove straight to City Hall to ensure her permits were correctly filed. Having showcased ‘Midsummer’ for the annual, ‘Spring-fest,’ five years running, she wouldn’t get upstaged by someone who couldn’t spell ‘park’.

Dress rehearsal at the bandstand started at three. Magical Wisteria tendrils snaked up the pillars and draped from the bandstand’s roof. Simple set pieces suggested a forest and a court. Margaret mounted the steps to see her cast awaiting her arrival. Seeing Jane in their midst and chatting up Jerome, her boyfriend, annoyed her.

She suppressed it. Margaret strode to the center stage. “Let’s go people. Places. Let’s pick up at the top of Act One, scene two. Spectators, please clear the stage. I don’t want any mishaps. Thank you.”

The players milled about to find their places. Jane broke away from Jerome and made her way down to watch the rehearsal beside Margaret.

She whispered, “Where’d you get a Bottom who looks like that?”

“He came that way.”

“He’s beautiful.”

“Yes, an Adonis.”

“His name is Don? I thought…”

“His name is Jerome. Excuse me…” Margaret signaled for quiet.

Jane became attentive to the action on stage.

She whispered, “I’m directing ‘Midsummer’ too.”

“I saw the flyer. A food booth, right?”

Jane simmered. “No. They misprinted the flyer. I made them fix it for free.”

“Like the play, a comedy of errors.”

“You think his ears are funny? They aren’t so big. You should see the ears on Bottom in my show.”

Margaret turned to Jane. “Do you know anything at all about the theater?”

Jane continued, “The actor I cast is terrible. He doesn’t just play an ass. He is one. A big one.”

“What’s his name?”

“Trevor.”

“Trevor Mitchell?”

“You know him?”

“He’s my brother.”

“Oh.” Jane stepped back to look at Margaret. “Runs in the family, then.”

“What?”

“Well, no offense, I guess you’d know about the ears.”

“He plays a donkey.”

“Yes, I get that, casting to type. You know I’m also directing a production…?”

“And you don’t know he wears a donkey’s head for most of the play?”

“My guy, your brother, doesn’t need a donkey’s head.”

Margaret turned away. “Incredible.”

The actors had stopped the scene to watch Margaret and Jane’s bickering.

Margaret gestured. “Carry on! Pick up at the last line…”

The actors fumbled a moment and continued.

Bottom resumed, “Methinks, mistress, you should have little reason for that, and yet, to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together nowadays.”

Jane sighed and turned to Margaret. “Whatever… Irregardless, I’ll trade you my ass for your Bottom.”

Margaret blinked, struggling to comprehend. “Honestly, no one’s ever made me that offer.”

Jane pointed Jerome performing as Bottom. “I’m talking about him.”

Margaret stared. “You’re talking about taking my boyfriend?”

“You’re dating Bottom?” Pointing. “That Bottom?”

“Yes, Jerome. The guy playing Bottom. He’s not available.”

“Really?”

“Not for your silly play or anything else. You don’t believe me? Ask him.”

“Already did.”

Jane turned away. Margaret fumed. The play continued with no further interruptions.

Margaret called a break and approached Jerome.

He removed the donkey head, “What drama took place down there? You want to trade places?”

“Jer, listen. I saw you talking with Jane before. Do you know her?”

“Never seen her before. She came up just before you arrived. Is she really trying to compete with our show? Isn’t that…?”

“I don’t care. I secured the bandstand. She can do what she wants. But I get the idea she wants to steal some of our actors. You hear about that?”

“No one I know of. She didn’t ask me.”

“Good. Let’s continue before it gets too late.” Margaret started away when Jerome touched her. She turned back to him.

“Maggie, I don’t know what Jane’s up to. But I’m with you. By now you should know I’m wise beyond my ears.” He winked.

She stared for a moment before they both burst into laughter. They embraced until it passed.

She pulled away. “I needed that, Jer. Thanks!” She called out, “Next scene everyone! Places!”

Personal issues aside, this relieved Margaret. It is hard enough to stage a play without worrying about cast members jumping to a competing production. She felt sorry for Trevor, her brother, but he signed on with Jane. Not her problem.

The rehearsal continued with no more delays. Jane had left.  

Margaret gave her actors notes and they wrapped for the night.

“Get a good night’s sleep, everyone. Tomorrow, we open our three-day run. You know the drill.”

She wasn’t happy with the rehearsal but Jane’s intrusion had distracted her. Dress rehearsals were notoriously disastrous.  

Margaret barely slept. She could neither rest nor concentrate. Dreaming wasn’t on the menu.

After midnight her phone rang. She answered it groggily. “This better be important.”

“Maggie, Trevor. I need a huge favor.”

“If it’s about the play, no.”

“It’s about me and the play.”

“Oh, if you put it that way… no.”

“Megs?”

“Don’t do that Trey. You know what that be-otch director, Jane pulled?”

“Sort of.”

“That kind of crap isn’t done. She’s an idiot.”

“Am I arguing?”

“You should hear what she called you.”

“You think I haven‘t?”

“What do you want?”

“Just let us borrow your stage. We’ll perform after you. A late show.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Your little brother will owe you. Big time.”

“You are tempting. How can I refuse?”

“You won’t regret it. See you tomorrow. Get some sleep.”

 Margaret dropped the phone and collapsed into her bed.

~

She arrived to the bandstand at the park early to find the place in an uproar. A furious Jane charged toward her with her arm outstretched in accusation.

“It was you! I know it.”

Margaret ignored this attack. She wanted to talk to someone sane. She saw Jerome and Trevor emerge from the storage shed. They nodded and headed her way. Others rushed about on obscure missions.

Jane continued. “You have no right! Everything was set. Saboteur!”

Margaret said, “What’s up, guys?”

Trevor took Jane aside. Jerome came up to Margaret.

“Someone broke into the prop room. Trevor’s donkey head is missing.”

“That’s awful. What can we do? Is it even our problem?”

“I offered him mine to use but it’s too small. I had it custom made and… well, short of plastic surgery…”

“Don’t tell me…”

“His nose…”

“I knew it! He has great genes, but, oh my God!”

“I figured you’d understand. It’s my fault. My head is really small, I guess.”

“Who would steal a donkey head? What’s the point?”

Jane ran up. “You have motive! You can’t stand the comparison. You had the means…”

Trevor stepped up. “She only just arrived, Jane. She didn’t even know until late last night.”

Jane stopped. She had no answer. She stalked off.

“Sorry Trey. You know, anything we can do…”

“Of course.”

“Can ours be modified?”

Jerome said, “We tried. Any changes would make it useless for me.”

Margaret hugged her brother. “We’ll think of something. We have a few hours…”

~

The reviewer for the Times, Ira Bombest, always gave Margaret’s productions glowing reviews. A man about town, everyone knew Ira and his silver tipped cane. Always elegantly dressed, his flamboyant entrances to fine restaurants and theaters were events in themselves.

The self-proclaimed poet-laureate of the city, he wrote poetry, reviews and obituaries in his column, ‘Personal Bombest,’ for over forty years. His obits and reviews were sometimes confused for one another, but these things happen.

Anyone might dread a bad review. Coming with the territory, they won’t necessarily kill a career. But get panned in your obituary and it’s a safe bet you’ll never work in this town again. You haven’t lived until you get one of Ira’s bad obits. No one survives one of those.

Over decades, his prose often flirted with cliché or worse. His words never wore out, but after forty years, his phrasing had become increasingly threadbare. Desiring gravitas and with an eye to his legacy, recent reviews leaned heavily toward the negative.

So iconic had his name remained, to receive even a remotely glowing mention from him was touted as a major achievement. Framed, laminated copies of Ira’s column graced office walls throughout the city.

But this spring, faced with competing productions, Ira felt he couldn’t automatically rubber stamp Margaret’s show. He needn’t have worried since popular opinion regarded his integrity as no more substantial than a vapor.

Few knew Ira’s habit of dozing during a show. As the curtain ascended, his eyelids soon after would surely fall.

That night, a collective guffaw in the second show roused him from his slumber and he actually witnessed Trevor‘s portrayal of Bottom.

Next morning, Margaret, Jerome, Trevor and even Jane met for coffee and to read Ira’s review.

It held that both productions underwhelmed expectations. “How many bad papier-mâché donkey heads must we endure?

“However, the second ‘Midsummer’ production offers a sight never seen before, an ass-headed Bottom, bravely played by the actor wearing his own human, but strangely equine head. That nose and that overbite! But the ears sell it best. How does he ever wear a hat? I know Jennies that fawn over Trevor Mitchell head-shots pinned-up in their stalls.

“Objectively, seeing him on the street you wouldn’t recoil in horror. But on stage, this young man transforms into a most hideous hybrid of human and ass. ‘Hilariously grotesque’ is meant here, only as the highest compliment.

“I must also say despite his youth, he delivers his lines as only a well-seasoned actor can. You must see this performance to believe it.

“However, as enjoyable as this performance was, I sincerely hope his presentation does not become a fashion trend.”

Over breakfast, Ira’s review received mixed reactions. Of course, everyone congratulated Trevor over his coup. Margaret and Jane each felt outraged at being slighted. But each kept it to themselves.

As the conversation wound down, Jane humbly suggested combining the better parts of the two productions into one. That would mean Trevor taking on the Bottom role in Jerome’s stead. Margaret fought for Jerome to keep his role. But he pointed out the audience for two successive performances had not materialized. Insisting that was the best compromise, Jerome agreed to bow out.

Everyone seemed satisfied with this result. And the show went on.